


Bare My Heart to Your Sleeping Face

by Elphen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Confession, Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Confused Crowley (Good Omens), Drinking, Drunken Confessions, During Canon, Fear of Discovery, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Passing Out, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Unheard Confessions, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), fear of heaven and hell, fearful aziraphale, nervous Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: Good Lord, when and how had it got this bad?While drinking together at the bookshop one night before the whole Antichrist business kicks off, Crowley falls into a deep sleep. Which is a problem because it's on top of Aziraphale. And that is a problem because it makes keeping his hands to himself that much more difficult. That it also makes his drunken self spill secrets - secrets that he should keep to himself so as not to anger Heaven but also not to lose the demon - to a deeply asleep Crowley he hadn't anticipated and afterwards, he's caught in a web of uncertainty and fear.Because was Crowley really that deeply asleep? Was he faking it? If he had heard, why hasn't he said anything? What will happen if or when he does say anything?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 77





	1. An inadvertent confession

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I shouldn't be starting more stories while I have unfinished ones. Those will have their continuations and their end, I promise. This story idea just wouldn't leave me (believe me, this is the third version of it, which finally went in the direction I wanted) and so...I decided to share.  
> Still a mix of book and show, apologies.

Crowley was drunk. To be fair, so was Aziraphale and to be even more fair, he was probably more drunk than the demon was but despite what one might assume, it was the angel who was holding his liquor better. Not by a whole lot, that was true enough, but he would take what he could get.

It helped that they also handled it a little bit differently.

Oh, they were both prone to talking a lot more when sloshed and have pretty long, rambling conversations that ranged from the simplest of topics to the deepest philosophical musings. Usually they were quite the eclectic mix of the two, with most things in between, too.

Crowley was more prone to gesticulating when plastered than Aziraphale was but apart from that, he was also more…not handsy – surprisingly, neither of them had touched the other much over the ages they’d known each other, not even when the opportunity had presented itself – but more…flexible. Prone to give into his serpentine nature and not just in terms of occasionally hissing.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Crowley would, if he didn’t think to sober up before he got to that point end up sprawling across the nearest surface he could find. In most cases that would be the sofa, as he seemed to prefer it whenever he came around to the bookshop. If they were drinking at a restaurant or similar, he would choose the table or another patron, though Aziraphale had wised up to that after a few disastrous incidents and could now gauge, more or less, when the other was just about getting to that point.

All of that would be fine, for a given value of fine when it came to his escapades at various establishments, if he didn’t often as not then fall asleep wherever he’d decided to flop down onto. That was a staple of being drunk, after all, but Aziraphale would have thought that only needed to apply to human beings, not supernatural ones. At least, he would if he hadn’t known Crowley so well at this point.

This again might not have been a problem on its own if not for the small but significant fact that very, very occasionally, to the point that the blond could count the occurrences on one hand, the nearest surface wasn’t a sofa, a chair, a table or even the floor.

No, sometimes the nearest surface a drunk demon could find to drape himself across for comfort and an eventual snooze was…well, quite frankly, it was Aziraphale himself.

Which, once more, like a series of dominos that might be ten feet tall but would only just about touch each other, wouldn’t have been an issue on its own. One might even argue that out of all the drunk idiots one could have sprawled across you, a handsome demon who weighed surprisingly little given his height was not among even the top twenty worst people. Especially given that when he did snore, it wasn’t deep and resonant, but a hiccupping, hissing version that was honestly incredibly adorable.

There was one problem, though, which started the series of dominos falling, and that was what brought the angel to his issue. Or more accurately, it showcased why he _was_ the issue.

See, rather than merely tolerating it or even liking it in an ‘I put up with your antics because you’re my friend’ kind of way – the angel didn’t dare admit that he considered them friends out loud, just in case someone heard who shouldn’t – Aziraphale had found that he very much liked it.

After all, it gave him a chance to be close to Crowley in a way that he couldn’t while they were both awake. They were closer when they were drunk in general but that was first of all a very different kind of closeness and secondly, as Aziraphale was also drunk, he didn’t get to experience it as he would’ve wished for.

When the demon was asleep – not passed out, he got sleepy before he just shut down, which was, given his occult nature, quite the fascinating thing to see happen – however, it was not just a time for the angel to sober up, it was one for him to get a good, uninterrupted look at the other.

Of course, he could do that when he was merely sleeping on the sofa as well, or the floor for that matter, provided that he wasn’t face-down, obviously. But there was something else to it when the lanky body was draped across him, something which had helped, in as much as he felt he could use the term, solidify the feelings that had grown inside of him for…he wasn’t even sure how long, really.

He knew his heart had done something strange inside his chest for at least the last half a millennium. Probably longer, a lot longer, and he just hadn’t noticed the way his heart had always warmed, and his face had lit up at the sight of the demon.

One might question how he would know his face had lit up but after inhabiting the same corporation for a millennium or two, you became rather intimately and inherently aware of every twist and turn your corporation was capable of, including the facial ones. Not to the point where you could necessarily control it, of course, but you were certainly more aware of just what the different ticks and twists meant. Besides, it wasn’t as though it was the most subtle of expressions, was it?

It had also helped that they’d seen so much more of each other in the last roughly two thousand years in comparison to earlier millennia, to the point that one might even call it an escalation. One which Aziraphale was quite pleased with, he had to admit. Extraordinarily so, as a matter of fact.

The point of it, though, was that what he felt for the demon now could really only be described as ‘love’. It was ridiculous and silly, not to mention wrong and just about the biggest taboo he as an angel could break.

Not that he wasn’t breaking some quite significant rules just by associating with Crowley in the first place, without even going into the Arrangement. But that was still like comparing running a street scam to swindling an entire company out of every asset it could possibly have. Both were crimes but one was decidedly more severe and far-reaching in its consequences than the other.

It was an encompassing kind of love, too, that went beyond what he should be feeling for the entirety of the world…but even then, it ought to exclude demons? Then again, Heaven didn’t honestly fulfil that brief very well itself either, did it?

Though that was a thought he tried not to think.

But the love he held for Crowley was not purely one kind or the other. It was, to borrow from the Greek descriptions, as much Storge and Philia as it was Eros, with a good dose of Pragma and really, not as much to do with Agape as one would expect from an angel, ignoring the earlier thought.

The fact that Eros had snuck in there at all, not to mention how large a part of it all it'd become was possibly the one aspect of his love for the demon that had startled, if not outright shocked, him the most. After all, that was the part that was most antithetical to the whole concept of being ethereal, wasn’t it? Not that that was necessarily saying a whole lot, but the point was that Eros was what he had never expected to feel.

If he was going to feel it for anyone, though, it would not only make the most sense, if not the only sense, for it to be his demon, there was nobody he would rather feel it for. His opposite number, his hereditary enemy, and yet, there was so much more they had in common than split them.

However, he wasn’t going to admit that out loud. Mostly that was in fear that someone somewhere would hear or otherwise detect it and that it would then put either or both of them into jeopardy, which was much more dangerous than, say, a sharply worded note.

For that same reason he wasn’t going to admit to anyone but himself that he was in love with his friend. Or at least, he told himself that was the reason and the only reason.

In reality, however, he wasn’t just scared of what his superiors would say. Perhaps it was actually more truthful to say that they were the lesser of the two entities he was scared of finding out about his feelings.

What didn’t help was that he didn’t even know how Crowley would react. Oh, he would be rejected, he was certain about that. But in what way and to what extent that rejection would come, however, that was something he did not know at all and would rather not speculate on if he could help it. All that accomplished was to make him sad and even more scared than he’d been before.

So, no, he was not going to let on that he not only harboured feelings for his friend but that they weren’t entirely angel pure, either. No matter how much he wanted to or how it sometimes hurt to have to conceal them. Pretend, even, sometimes that he was very conflicted and uncertain of whether they were doing the right thing associating.

That last part was done as much to keep himself in check and remind himself of what he stood to lose if he should slip up.

Thankfully for him, he’d worked out relatively quickly that if he pushed away, just a little, carefully so, then Crowley would not be offended but would bounce right back. He would sometimes even get a little bit closer, both physically and metaphorically, than he’d been before, which delighted the angel each and every time, and so he had to watch that he didn’t overdo it.

He would take what he had, however little it might be in the grand scheme of things, over losing his demon, either through meddling from above or below or because Crowley couldn’t cope with Aziraphale’s feelings.

Which brought him to his current predicament.

All of the dominoes seemed to have lined themselves up tonight, as Crowley had decided to hit the bottles he’d brought from the restaurant they’d been at, quite hard and by the time he’d gotten through all of them, with admittedly some help from Aziraphale, he was beyond sozzled and consequently, more overly cooked noodle than occult being stuffed in a human body.

Aziraphale had, perhaps inadvisably given the situation, elected to sit himself on the sofa rather than his chair as he normally did. In hindsight, he would’ve wished that he’d moved the books stacked momentarily there to his desk but at the time, he didn’t feel he had the coordination.

Besides, where had been the problem in sitting at one end of the sofa while Crowley lounged across the rest?

Except he should’ve known better. It would become a problem, roughly around the time when the ginger apparently decided that it was a much better idea to sprawl horizontally than something approaching vertically.

It happened in the middle of a sentence, too; half of it was delivered gesturing enthusiastically, then a pause, and then Aziraphale found himself with a lap full of lanky body. He wasn’t sure whether it was a blessing or not that it was the torso laying across his thighs, since it did mean that Crowley’s face was rather close.

There was silence for a few long moments after that, the half-finished sentence left to drift away into nothing.

“Hullo, angel,” the demon finally grinned, the lopsided nature of his smile having nothing to with his position. The grin, as most other smiles, smirks, grins and similar from Crowley, did funny things to Aziraphale’s insides.

“Crowley, what are you –?”

But it was too late; Crowley was asleep. As his sunglasses so neatly obscured his eyes, the way Aziraphale was able to tell that he was had more to do with the tension in the lanky body releasing just a little but felt more due to where he lay. Well, that and the grin had become a somewhat slackly open mouth, though thankfully there was no snoring. That was a bit of a clue, too.

The angel stared at him, trying to get his bearings on what had happened, or more accurately why he hadn’t clocked that Crowley was as drunk as he was – pissed was probably the better word, though Aziraphale most certainly wasn’t going to say it out loud – and would be liable to fall asleep.

It didn’t help him that he wasn’t exactly sober himself. Sloshed was probably the more accurate word, but only slightly, he’d argue. That was probably also why he had made the, in hindsight, stupid decision to sit himself that closely to the other. It certainly hadn’t been in the hope that he would experience this.

Had it?

No, it hadn’t.

Yes, so he’d known that they’d been drinking, and they’d come back here to do some more drinking. But that did not equal that this would be the outcome and he hadn’t planned for it.

Nor had he hoped for it because he…he was never ready for it and as much as some part of him thrilled to the contact he had with the other, one which he didn’t ever otherwise get and certainly not to this extent – he simply didn’t dare when they were both sober – what took up much more of his mind was the fright that he would overstep somewhere.

That he would touch Crowley, perhaps stroke his cheek or touch his hair and, far more importantly, would have serious difficulty stopping himself continuing to touch him.

But the alcohol must’ve been a bit more potent in him than he would’ve expected it or have unlocked the last bit of something inside of him, because before he was quite aware of what he was doing, his fingers had in fact reached out to trail gently over a cheek. Oh, it was quite splendidly soft, despite the impression that it would be at least a little bit rough.

Crowley mumbled something but didn’t wake. However, his head turned into the unintended caress.

That simple gesture made Aziraphale retract his hand at once. Or rather, it should have done and in more sober circumstances, it probably would have done. Possibly.

Now, however, it seemed to have a mind of his own as it trailed further up and just about into the hair line.

There he did manage to stop it and even pull it away entirely, much as he had to struggle to.

He should wake Crowley up. Shake him awake and tell him to sober up, for God – for goodness’ sake.

_And have you ever done that the other times he’s fallen asleep on you?_

Well, no. He couldn’t say that he had. What he had done was slide himself out from underneath the lanky body as gently and carefully as he possibly could so that he wouldn’t wake Crowley. Not that was likely, given how deeply he appeared to be asleep but even if he didn’t feel anything, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to manhandle the other. There was no need to, so why do it?

One might argue that he could as well just sit and wait for the demon to wake up on his own accord, perhaps miracle a book into his hands if needed. But not only was Crowley quite the master in sleeping when he had a mind to, such as when he’d been entirely too plastered and hadn’t bothered sobering up before falling asleep, if he woke up and found that he was lying in Aziraphale’s lap, well...

Then he would undoubtedly turn it into some sort of joke or gently teasing quip and Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to cope with the sheer embarrassment and awkwardness. Granted, awkward was almost stitched into the very backbone of the country he had lived in for so much of the last millennium, at least, but even so…

Whatever the case, the angel would have some explaining to do and he wasn’t at all sure that he would be able to do so, and certainly not in a way that wouldn’t leave him somewhat compromised, because why would he allow Crowley to use him as a pillow and mattress while he slept? What possible explanation could he come up with that was remotely plausible?

Except for the truth which would land him right in the whole horrid mess of being rejected. Unquestionably.

So, better all around if he managed to get out of it before there was a risk of Crowley waking up and…and ruining it.

Right. Yes. Best get on with it, hadn’t he? No need to dawdle, after all, it would only further the risk.

He tried to get up. Truly, he did. But by the time he’d wrestled enough control of his limbs back from the alcohol in his body – he would later wonder why exactly he hadn’t just sobered up at that point and come up with no real answer – not to mention his courage and determination, Crowley turned. Not a lot but just about enough so that he could push his face a little into the soft roundness that was Aziraphale’s stomach. His nose, certainly, and was that – that was surely not a hand against his belly, was it?

Struggling to accept what he thought he felt, he looked down and sure enough, though it wasn’t easy to see in the gloom created there, long fingers was splayed gently against the curve of the stomach.

“Crowley…?” he asked, wondering, with a not inconsiderable amount of flashing panic, whether his friend had woken up or was at least aware of his surroundings.

He got no answer, at least none that would definitely indicate that the other was awake. All he got was a muffled huff of breath that might’ve been a contented, sleepy hum or might’ve been something else entirely.

“Crowley, please!” Aziraphale asked, half-hoping that Crowley was awake and more than half-terrified of the same thing.

Nothing. Not even a breath this time.

The sunglasses were digging into the flesh of the stomach of the blond, though, just a little. But Aziraphale had other things on his mind and wouldn’t notice until he later felt and found the indents.

Bit by bit as nothing happened, Aziraphale managed to relax again.

The scare should’ve sobered him up and to be honest, it mainly did so.

He wasn’t quite prepared to admit that, however. Not then and not later because that would bring into question just what he said and did next.

Perhaps not quite next. He did sit for a while, trying to gather himself again. Then he tried to think of a way that would allow him to move the lithe body from him without manhandling him. It should be possible, even in the position they were now in, and yet he was struggling to think of one.

Or maybe that was just because he still felt shaky himself, not helped by the way Crowley would occasionally shift or hum, as though he couldn’t be in a more comfortable position. Which was flattering, really, even Aziraphale could admit that, even if it wasn’t exactly helpful.

As he sat there, however, instead of gathering himself, he could feel his nerves tick steadily upwards, despite his best efforts and he could only feel incredibly grateful that he wasn’t…suffering the issue that humans males might if the object of their desire had planted themselves right in their laps for an extended period of time.

What should he do?

Calm his nerves. That was what he needed. Something to calm him down and make this much easier to handle. Yes. Definitely.

He’d reached for the nearest wine glass, which was his own recently discarded one on the side table next to him and was mysteriously full to almost the brim by the time he brought it to his lips, before he was fully aware of what he’d done.

The liquid went down fast, probably too fast, and it reacted very effectively, not to mention quickly, with the alcohol not yet out of his system.

Even so, though the glass was empty before it left his lips, he filled it again and down another one.

By that point, the nerves had very successfully been dulled if not entirely anesthetised, or even outright killed. But it had also brought back another problem; his limbs felt significantly heavier and more unresponsive than before.

To make matters worse, if that was possible, Crowley had turned back to lie on his back. His hand oddly enough stayed put but his face was once again free for Aziraphale to see and his heart skipped a beat again at the sight of it. More than one beat, actually.

He looked so…peaceful. So content and relaxed in a way that was almost unfathomable when he was awake. Vulnerable, perhaps, though that felt odd to say about someone who’d survived through so much of human history and been witness to many of its most horrid parts. Of course, so had Aziraphale, but though he knew that humanity was far more capable of thinking up horrid things than demons ever could be, he hadn’t been in the front row seat to that many of them. Crowley had and yet…

And yet he was still here, still working, still making his way through eternity as best as he could, with an attitude that nothing could touch him or bother him.

Now, though…it wouldn’t be right to say that he looked younger because he hadn’t changed a bit in six thousand years, neither of them had, but he certainly looked more, yes, vulnerable.

And that vulnerability should be protected. Should be cherished, really, much like the rest of him. Told how beautiful and wonderful he was, not to mention the rest of it.

Aziraphale’s traitorous hand had once more reached out, despite the otherwise continued heaviness and unresponsiveness of his limbs, and it was now sliding its fingers through the fiery hair.

He would later blame the wine entirely for what happened then, but he knew in his heart that he couldn’t entirely blame it on that, however much he wished to.

His fingers slid through the hair again, relishing in the thick softness of the strands against his fingers. Then his mouth decided to betray him, too.

“Crowley,” he murmured. “Dearest Crowley, if only you knew. No, that doesn’t…but if only you could understand – and they would, too. How could anyone know you for any length of time, much less as long as I have had that privilege, and not fall for you?”

What on earth was he saying? Oh, no. No, no, no, no! That couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t. Any moment now, yellow eyes would open, and he would be up to the tip of his wings in sh – manure.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, it seemed that his mouth wasn’t done and he was along for the ride, whether he wanted to or not.

“I know I couldn’t. I shouldn’t have, I know that, too, and not just because they wouldn’t approve. But I did, longer ago than I knew, and now I cannot help my love for you. You are funny and kind, no matter what you say, but you are also beautiful, and I find myself longing to know how your lips feel against my own or your fingers feel in my hair. But I’m so grateful we get to spend so much time together now, and I would rather be missing a wing than lose you. So, I guess all I can have is this moment. I love you, my dearest, and I hope you will never know this.”


	2. Oh, dear, what to do now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with his mind and his feelings in the wake of the inadvertent revelation would be hard enough on its own, but to then have to stay very close to Crowley for an extended period of time while they try to mould Warlock, that is something else for the poor angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubbish title and summary, I know. I'm very tired right now so I can't do any better.  
> Thank you to the people who were kind enough to leave feedback on the last chapter.

The last part might seem like a very odd thing to say, except that it wasn’t really. It was Aziraphale wrestling a bit of control back from his run-away and traitorous mouth but more than that, it was a promise both to the sleeping demon and to himself.

A promise that despite, or perhaps because of, this momentary lapse in judgment, Aziraphale would never do anything that would jeopardise their current relationship, and especially not when it came to their respective upstairs.

His love wouldn’t waver, he knew that by this point. Too much had happened in the time they’d known each other, and even in the face of all of that, including the threat from both Heaven and Hell, it had never disappeared or even faded. But nor could he allow it to come between them.

That promise was the last thing he said, however, his mouth clamping quite audibly shut as he finally managed to regain control.

Anger and incredulity at what had just occurred and why it had was pushed into the background for the moment in the silent panic of watching out for any indication that Crowley was in actual fact awake despite everything that said he was still fast asleep or that he had heard any of it.

Green eyes scanned over the defined features, then did it again then once more.

There was nothing. Of course, snakes were known to be able to lie completely still for long periods of time, weren’t they? They didn’t need to be asleep for that to happen, either.

_But he’s not entirely a snake, is he? He’s a fallen angel, first of all, then a snake demon. So, it doesn’t have to follow that what they can do, he can as well, and he does look as though he’s fast asleep. God knows that I’ve seen him drunk and consequently asleep enough times to know his face when he’s out like a light._

Even so, the stakes were significantly higher here than they’d ever been, at least between the two of them, weren’t they? This could cause severe and permanent damage between them, after all.

The anger was slowly seeping its way back in between the cracks of the panic, aided by the alcohol forcefully leaving his body now, though it was almost purely anger towards himself.

Why had he started to touch the ginger? Never mind that, really, at least in the face of why on earth he had suddenly started to talk about this? Why would he ever bare his heart like that? It made absolutely no sense and he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, not entirely, as much as he wanted to.

His eyes scanned over the other’s face again, and yet again saw no indication that he was aware of where he was, much less that something had been said or what that something was.

_Please let that be the case. Please, just let him be as deeply asleep as he appears to be. Let me not have ruined it all in one fell swoop. Please._

“Crowley,” he called again, softly, as one final attempt. He considered removing the sunglasses for a better look, to be sure one way or the other. But that wouldn’t necessarily give him a clearer answer and it’d run the risk of consequently waking the other up.

So, as there was still nothing, except perhaps for a slight further opening of his mouth, Aziraphale let out the softest, most unobtrusive yet longest of sighs. For all its smallness, however, it was heavily laced with relief.

Now all he had to do was somehow manoeuvre himself out from underneath the lanky body and lay him out on the sofa as though he’d been sleeping on that all along. But that shouldn’t be much of a problem. He’d done that before, after all, and the residual heat of his body on the seat would help convince the demon’s body that it’d been lying on that all along.

It took a bit more effort than usual, mostly because he was even more hyperaware of everything he did and how it might give the whole thing away.

Eventually, though, he managed to do it and clear his normal seat without sending any book tumbling to the floor, which he was rather proud of. With the way the evening had gone, it would just figure that he’d sent them crashing – and they were quite rare and precious books, too. But no, there was no papery carnage to be had this time.

He even found a blanket to drape over the sleeping figure and had managed to settle himself down in his own armchair with a book in one hand and a careful cup of tea, as he hadn’t been able to face a cup of hot cocoa right then, in the other.

In fact, so long passed before Crowley began to stir that Aziraphale had managed to not just pretend to read but actually become engrossed in what he was reading. That wasn’t to say he’d managed to push the whole incident out of his mind, because he was absolutely certain that the day that he managed that would be the same day he actually got hold of “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter”.

Crowley woke with a serious of small noises that might’ve been annoying to others but which Aziraphale normally found rather endearing. This time, however, he didn’t hear them and didn’t otherwise notice the motions the snake went through as he woke up.

He did clock the somewhat mussy-sounding, searching call of his name, though, and couldn’t help the small extra beat of his heart at the thought that the first thing out of Crowley’s mouth when he woke was his name, even if it was probably merely because he’d fallen asleep in his bookshop and didn’t know where the other was.

“Take your glasses off, you’ll be able to see everything much better,” he said, not looking up from the page. Studiously so, one might say. He didn’t need to see the lanky body slowly wake up and not just because he knew well enough what it looked like.

“Don’t want to. Far too bright as is,” answered Crowley, a slight hiss to his voice. However, he didn’t sound quite as drunk or even as hung-over as one would expect with the amount of alcohol he’d downed. Or perhaps it was more that he didn’t sound as tired as he ought to, given the fact that he’d only just woken up.

Aziraphale didn’t notice that.

“Well, if you will drink that much…” he chided as he turned a page. He conveniently forgot to say anything about how much they normally drank or how much he himself had consumed.

The ginger, however, didn’t.

“You drank more than I did!” Crowley said and whether that was protest, accusation or indignation wasn’t at all clear. “And you had booze in your dessert!”

That last part definitely was accusation. He’d sat himself up at that, the blond could tell by the creak of the sofa and the soft noise of the blanket shifting.

“That hardly counts. You’re supposed to have alcohol in a trifle, it really isn’t a proper trifle without it.”

Aziraphale still didn’t look up from where he was reading his book. At least, ostensibly he was reading it. In reality, he’d stopped being engrossed in its plot and not purely because he had to carry on a conversation with Crowley at the same time. He could multitask in such matters rather well after so much practice. That he chose to block out the rest of the world to focus on his reading was another matter entirely.

Just because he was no longer engrossed didn’t mean he was going to look up, however. He was quite content where he was, thank you ever so much. Ahem.

“But you picked one that had kirsch in the trifle and the cherries on top were soaked in it, too.”

That he was almost entirely coherent now Aziraphale wasn’t surprised by. He’d undoubtedly pushed both tiredness and hangover out with a small miracle or whatever was the demonic equivalent.

But it was nice to fall into something as ordinary as their normal chat, even in its good-natured quibbling form, and he grabbed at it gratefully, in the hope that if he worked hard and kept things bottled up and under mental lock and key far better than he had – preferably, he never got drunk around Crowley again, either – then things could continue like this between them forever. Which would be all that he could wish for, really.

“And as I recall, you stole most of those cherries, one of them off my very fork.”

The smirk the demon had had when he’d done it, too – and the fact that it was a small smirk hadn’t diminished it in the slightest, either.

At long last, he managed to turn a page. Now just to remember what the last paragraph on the previous page had been about. Something about…about…

His view of the page was suddenly obscured by locks of shoulder length red hair. Then the rest of his vision was filled up with the visage of Crowley who was rather too close for comfort. Especially as he was at the perfect closeness for a kiss.

Aziraphale immediately reared his head back a fair bit and did it quickly.

In the back of his mind was the thought that it was good his panic to keep from overstepping – and why was it suddenly so constantly difficult to refrain from that when it wasn’t even as though it was a recent development, even by their standards? – could look as though he was just shocked at Crowley disrespecting personal space.

“You still drank more than me,” drawled Crowley, as though that somehow concluded the argument.

“Well, then I guess what we can conclude from that is that I hold my alcohol far better than you do,” Aziraphale replied, a tad sniffilly, trying hard to ignore the desire to…well, so much, really, it was hard to keep track of.

But Crowley only grinned.

“Hah! As if. You forget that I know you, angel, and I remember…” He paused, at first just frowning. Then it became his whole face that scrunched up for a beat, two.

“Excuse me,” he said around a noise that might’ve been a suppressed burp.

“Really,” Aziraphale said, sounding for all the world like a mildly scandalised housewife from the fifties. But then, Crowley did excuse himself, that was, well, something.

“Your blessed cherries,” Crowley said, stifling another one. “Trying to make a run for it. Oh, Satan…”

He pulled away, looking genuinely uncomfortable, one hand finding the lower half of his abdomen – calling it a stomach or belly seemed almost wrong when it was rarely anything but concave – while the other stayed in the vicinity of his mouth.

Concerned, Aziraphale closed his book and put it away.

Then he handed Crowley a glass.

The demon stared at him for moment but took the glass without comment and downed its contents.

Without question, either, Aziraphale realised a little belatedly. He could’ve filled that to the brim with holy water – not that he ever would, mind! Just the thought of it was _abominable_ and made his insides churn and writhe. What had been in the glass was water and something to calm the stomach whatever ailed it. But the _point_ was that he could have done it, and Crowley would’ve drunk it, without hesitation or question.

His heart was beating painfully in his chest as he watched Crowley let out a sigh of relief, the pain not entirely bad.

This. This right here, the trust in him, the inclusion, the care and all the rest. Wasn’t this worth the heartache, the troubles and the pining?

What an absolutely silly question.

* * *

It wasn’t long after that, about a year or so, that Crowley got his assignment to deliver the Antichrist to his foster parents and the countdown to Armageddon officially began.

Well, technically, of course, that countdown had begun the moment Earth had been created, really, but the home straight, as it were, had arrived and as always in such circumstances where you’re mainly sure you didn’t want to reach what lay at the end of the countdown, time seemed to pass just a bit faster.

At the same time, though, the fact that it all ticked down to an endpoint, _the_ endpoint, you might say, made things take on a new importance along with the urgency, and thus it felt slower, somehow. As if the world was being run at eight-tenth of its normal speed. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

The fact that they were trying to prevent it from happening at all didn’t make much of a difference in that scenario, unfortunately.

What it did do, however, was push Aziraphale’s fears about what he’d done and whether he’d made a complete mess of everything into at least a modicum of background.

Having the demon somewhere in the world, safe and sound even if Aziraphale would never see him again because of what he’d revealed, however inadvertently, was preferable to have him discorporated or outright destroyed through Heavenly means when the battle, the war finally arrived.

Even in the scenario where it was Hell who won the war – and Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling awful and terribly guilty for even contemplating that possibility, because he _shouldn’t_ – there was no guarantee he’d be safe or even come out of it alive.

No, preventing Armageddon had…further benefits than making sure the Earth and its inhabitants didn’t perish in the struggle between Heaven and Hell to see who was, ultimately, the deserved victor.

But the fact that it’d been pushed into the background in favour, if such it could be called, of more worldly concerns did not equal that they were gone or even that they would stay in the background. Of course not.

The first time they surfaced was while they were both ‘employed’ by the Dowlings to look after little Warlock.

He had feared that it would happen sooner, to be perfectly honest.

When they had, in their attempt to cope with the fact that the End of the World had gone from some nebulous future point to an actual, concrete time of roughly eleven years from then, begun to drink, Aziraphale had a few extra issues to deal with. Such as the panic over drinking with Crowley again and the determination that nothing would pass his lips, never mind allow either of them to fall asleep. The fear that being drunk would loosen their tongues, too, and that either would let something slip that they shouldn’t.

Even so, the drink was very much needed in light of what he’d learned, and he couldn’t help the almost copious amount that he downed.

Thankfully, though their talk was decidedly drunken and just a bit silly despite the seriousness of the situation, there was no mention or even hint of Aziraphale’s confession. As for the risk of falling asleep drunk, that was thankfully taken care of by his need to sober up in order to cope with what they were talking about. And Crowley following suit, of course. Most definitely.

In the intervening five years, until Warlock was, they felt, old enough to have a nanny that could also function as a governess and could teach him thoroughly, they saw each other, yes, to find out whether there were any more murmurings from below or above and keep notes on how the ambassador and his wife was handling their little hell-spawn.

Granted, they did also go out to purely enjoy themselves sometimes. Aziraphale wasn’t quite able to enjoy it all as he normally did, at least not for the first two or three years, but after nothing seemed to come of it, he began to relax just a little.

And they were busy with other stuff, too. Impending Armageddon ought really to either speed every activity on earth up as things needed to be wrapped up and everything made ready for the rush or come to a grinding halt as there was no longer much point to try and enact anything. It would be like ordering a buffet option five minutes before closing.

But looking after the Antichrist, balancing out the influences, that brought them into closer…not exactly contact, as there wasn’t too much reason for a nanny and a gardener to interact, but certainly proximity and for a longer period than they ever had. They even did interact from time to time. Of course, they were careful to keep their talk strictly professional, well, mainly, and most certainly didn’t discuss the nature of their little charge while either Warlock or his parents could overhear.

Sometimes, however, Aziraphale thought there was an odd cadence to Crowley’s voice when they talked that was new. It was only occasionally but it happened while they were in-character as Ashtoreth and Brother Francis – and well, he would have to admit that the slight burr in the softened nanny-voice was…quite lovely – as well as when they otherwise met up and regardless of the circumstance, Aziraphale was still able to detect it.

The oddity mainly came from it seeming to be, of all things, something like optimism, like hope. It wasn’t exactly beaming but it was there, a soupçon infused in many other expressions and tones. Which would make sense if it related to how things seemed to be working, that the heavenly influences really were balancing out the hellish ones, which seemed to the blessed case, rendering the child wonderfully normal.

Crowley had voiced the thought that perhaps he was too normal a few times already but Aziraphale had resolutely pushed the idea aside.

Though he could admit he was hardly an expert, Aziraphale didn’t think the optimism and hope was to do with their apparent success. It felt unrelated to it, among other things because it appeared at occasions and in conversations that had nothing to do with the little boy they were looking after.

It wasn’t only that, either. If it had been purely that, Aziraphale might’ve been able to write it off. As what exactly, he wasn’t sure and didn’t dare examine, in case that it crumbled before him, when he thought that it was in fact solely that.

What was in addition was the occasional long stare from equally long distances that seemed incredibly thoughtful for the demon’s normal range, visible through the sunglasses, and didn’t stop when the blond caught it. Not immediately, anyway, as if Crowley didn’t mind being caught watching. Once or twice there was even just the hint of a smile, highlighted by bright lipstick when nannying, that hadn’t even a hint of a smirk in it.

There was also the fact that he sat himself closer than he’d done before or moved so that he was almost, _almost_ touching the blond without quite getting there and even that sometimes, very rarely, Crowley would open his mouth when there’d been silence between them, and start to ask a question, only to seemingly think the better of it and shut his mouth, then often enough start talking about something else entirely. Sometimes he wouldn’t get further than a noise before he clammed up.

That last part was in itself not really odd but in conjunction with the other things and the fact that they were all rather new additions…

Whatever the actual reason for it, it made the angel’s fear that something must’ve gotten through to the demon of that confession while he slept despite everything, and he was telling him that he knew ratchet right back up.

Aziraphale’s hands bunched into fists against his thighs as he sat in his chair in the bookshop one evening and contemplated it. He wasn’t exactly keen on doing it, but he’d put it off for a long while by that point and it was starting to affect him.

But no. No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would he wait this long to start giving him hints if he’d remembered all along? Or perhaps a better question, if he’d only just remembered or pieced something together, was why he was hinting at it in the first place? Why not confront him outright? It wasn’t as though Crowley could ever be termed as ‘shy’, was it?

It was simply Aziraphale’s paranoia doing the talking and nothing more. Yes, that was it.

However, that left the question of why he’d then been doing all of those things. What other possible explanation could there be? It was hard, to say the least, to think of any that would fit the criteria.

_You could always ask Crowley,_ an inner voice suggested. _Be the one who confronts him._

Oh, yes, and how would that look? ‘Crowley, I believe you keep doing this and that and so on, little things that add up to something else, I feel. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I cannot help but be worried and slightly unsettled.’

Yes, that’d just work outright marvellously, wouldn’t it?

Especially seeing as ‘unsettled’ only worked as something not completely horrible, coming from an angel to a demon, when it was used in the context of Aziraphale’s fears and worries. Which was exactly what he was trying to hide.

Using other words wouldn’t work much better either, he felt, because he was, implicitly or explicitly, saying that he was keeping Crowley under observation and monitoring their conversations and for what?

No, there was a number of reasons why that could be construed wrongly. Nor was it as though he was likely to get a good explanation or even an explanation at all out of it. Even if that was the case, the risk to reward was quite disproportionate.

What should he do instead, then?

Oh, he didn’t know!

His closed hands slid down his thighs then back up in frustrated fear and apprehension.

Why had he done it? No amount of alcohol or even the combination of Crowley’s presence in his lap and copious amounts of alcohol should be capable of sending his guard down so fully as that. He should have known better. Should’ve been able to stop his mouth – and his hand!

That was another issue.

In comparison to six millennia, five years were, well, the blink of an eye, really, if even that much. Add to that that Aziraphale had, when the circumstances were right – whether that was by his choice or not was another matter – quite the crystal, almost eidetic memory, and you ended up in a situation where certain moments still felt as though they had only just happened.

Perhaps it was also the fact that it hadn’t been some random person he’d touched. It was Crowley.

Yes. That most certainly made a lot of, if not all the difference.

But he could still feel at least a phantom of that cheek underneath his fingers, the thick, red hair between them and it made him _ache_ , in more ways than one.

That brought him back to the question of why he’d done it. He’d known that it was a bad idea from the off, had always managed to curtail any inclinations to take it where he so wanted but couldn’t take back.

The worst part was…he had no answer. Not a one.

Even after spending what felt like hours on it, he was getting nowhere except feeling further sense of misery about it all.

Then he sighed deeply and got up from his chair.

He would have to be back at the Dowling house in just a few hours, in full smiling buck-toothed ensemble and with a disposition to match as he nudged the actual hell-spawn towards something more…divine, and he did have some actual work to do before then.

Right. Slip back into who he was meant to play – and that wasn’t purely the gardener persona, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anything happen in this? Suddenly I don't feel like it did. Sorry. It hurt to write, though, mostly in terms of Aziraphale.  
> I meant to have this up yesterday but I almost lost my computer to sudden reboot loop, so I'm glad to be able to upload at all.  
> Well, then...I'll try my best to do better.


	3. Special friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock notices something about his nanny and the gardener. Aziraphale attempts to sort it out but lands himself in deeper trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've let this languish in non-updated for so long, to anyone who read this. I shall do my best to finish it, though chapters might either be shorter or still be a bit between them. I don't know.

Was the boy really ‘too normal’? He did certainly seem to be rather within a normal range for a child in his situation but Aziraphale had, in all the time they’d been watching over him, always brushed it off as just being successful at what they’d set out to do.

Lately, though, he had begun to have his doubts. They were small ones, barely enough to grasp hold of, but they were there.

Of course, it hadn’t exactly helped that Crowley had voiced the concern a few times, too. Aziraphale wouldn’t say that that had been the only factor, but it had come up in the last few years.

Years in which he had been fairly…occupied, too. Not only had they had their ‘undercover’ guardianships, they’d had to deal with some of their regular duties, too, for what it was worth, and convince both Heaven and Hell that they were doing an excellent job swaying the boy in _their_ direction.

On top of that, there was the very definite worry of what they’d do if it didn’t work out and he did come into his power, after all. There were only a few years left to go now and they hadn’t come up with anything. The one time he’d dared to mention anything, Crowley hadn’t really given much of an answer, had he?

Oh, and of course Aziraphale’s own personal fear of being found out.

It should’ve lessened over the years, as it had before they’d become nanny and gardener. But that had been with less contact in general and certainly without the addition of those oddities which persisted and so, he found that it had stayed roughly at that spike, that peak of fear throughout.

Nor did it help that Warlock had, with the directness that only a child could employ, asked one day, when the boy had been…eight? Seven…whether he and Nanny were special friends.

He’d said no, of course, and asked, as kindly as he could – he was going for calmly as well but wasn’t quite as certain on whether he managed that or not – what had given Warlock that idea, seeing as they weren’t friends. They were just both employees of the Dowling family.

It had hurt more than a little to say that they weren’t friends, even though he was, technically speaking, not referring to himself or to Crowley. Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis wasn’t supposed to know each other, were they? They had no reason to. On the other hand, they had worked in the same house for a few years now, it wouldn’t be odd for the boy to assume or for them to at least be acquaintances, which a child would as likely interpret as friends.

Aziraphale then suddenly had the fervent hope that Warlock wouldn’t bring that back to his nanny. But in the very likely, almost certain, scenario that he would, given everything, then he would…oh, good grief! He was determined to make it worse on himself, wasn’t he?

He would have to get hold of Crowley before – no, he would have to have the talk with Warlock first. Find a way to mitigate it so that what the boy would bring back, if anything, wouldn’t hurt the demon. There was no need for that. Not now, nor ever, really.

The angel opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Warlock answered the question he’d posed.

“Because I’ve seen you,” he said, and Aziraphale had to tell himself to remain calm, that that didn’t mean anything, necessarily. And when exactly did he become this much of a nervous person?

“Oh, yes?” he said, his tone carefully without inflection.

“Yeah. And you were telling Nanny off and you don’t do that unless you know each other.”

“I may, ah, have had a word with her.” And here he was meant to instil virtues into the boy, not allow him to witness anything like that. He got enough of that from his parents, after all, whenever both of them were home, at least. “You can do that when you’re…well, when you are acquaintances as well as when you are friends.”

There. That was…was that any good? What he would hopefully go away with was the last part, not least because ‘acquaintances’ was a bit of a long word for a seven-year old. Then again, that might be why it would stick in his mind.

Perhaps, at least, Crowley would understand better, then, or at least ask quietly.

Warlock was still frowning, though, his little face quite serious. “But Brother Francis, you said that you mustn’t tell other people off like that. That you’re not supposed to say mean things to others because that hurts them. That’s not loving.”

“I...ah.” Had he said that? He must’ve, he supposed, but the details of the memory eluded him at the moment, which was a bit unfortunate in the circumstances. “That is quite true, young master Warlock. But as I said, it wasn’t a telling off. It was – “

“A discussion that got a wee bit animated, that’s all,” came a voice from behind them and Aziraphale did not jump at the sound of it. He did _not._ Nor did his heart leap into his throat.

“Nanny!” Warlock exclaimed, getting up from where he’d been sitting.

He ran over to her and she bent and picked him up with ease. She didn’t swing him around or other such nonsense, but she did hug him to her for a moment before she set him back down.

“Hello, dearie,” she said and there was warmth in that voice that Aziraphale wouldn’t have expected to hear prior to their ‘employment’ here. “And how is my little hell-spawn? Have you been good while Nanny went shopping?”

“Yes!” he said, in the hope that he’d then get some of her boiled sweets. He mostly liked the candy his father got shipped from the states, but he made an exception for her sweets. They were always his favourite.

“Have you now? Well, that’s a bit of a disappointment.”

“But Nanny…!” Even though it could hardly be the first time something like that had happened, he sounded a little confused and significantly put out.

“Has he been good, Brother Francis?” Ashtoreth asked, looking up from Warlock’s confused and disappointed yet still hopeful face to look directly, in as much as you could tell from behind the sunglasses, at Aziraphale.

The angel was not expecting being addressed like that in the situation, which didn’t involve him apart from Crowley interrupting him earlier, and certainly not in front of the child. Nor did he anticipate being drawn into the discussion, if one could call it that.

What was he even meant to answer? ‘Good’ by whose standards? And wasn’t he meant to go against whatever Nanny Ashtoreth said, just on principle?

“Oh, yes,” he ended up saying, somehow managing a smile, the buckteeth assisting him in that regard. “Young master Warlock has been quite inquisitive.”

He didn’t say anything else, leaving it up to the demon to interpret further if he wanted to.

“Oh, he has, has he?” Ashtoreth said, turning her attention back to Warlock, who nodded. “Well, now, that’s certainly a different matter altogether. Asking questions is always a worthy endeavour, I should say. “Now, let’s see what a good boy might get for his efforts.”

She reached into a pocket that had previously been entirely flat and pulled out two cellophane-wrapped spheres that might’ve been brown.

There you go, dear,” she said, and Warlock took them both, unwrapped them and plopped them both in his mouth.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest but closed it again immediately. That really wasn’t his to comment on, was it?

“Now run along, pet, I’ll be with you in two shakes, okay?” Ashtoreth said and Warlock nodded, happily sucking on the sweets as he ran off.

“He’s going to break his teeth on those one of these days,” Aziraphale commented vaguely as he looked at the boy.

“Only his baby teeth. But wouldn’t that be a sight, the Prince of Darkness with a chipped front tooth.”

“Really.” The huffy indignance was a lovely, shielding relief to employ sometimes, even if the respite was brief.

“Just a joke, just a joke.”

Aziraphale felt and heard more than he saw the other sit down beside him on the step he’d been occupying for a bit, the soft rustle of lining against the outer fabric oddly…sensuous, despite its connotations.

What was also still a bit peculiar was having the conversations they usually had, including the quibbling which Warlock must’ve overheard at some point, when Crowley employed his Nanny voice.

A part of the angel couldn’t help noticing, too, that once again the demon had sat himself down closer than he used to. Not close enough to cause offense, especially seeing as they were portraying a male and a female, or suggest something, but enough that Aziraphale noticed.

“What exactly were the two of you talking about?” Crowley asked in a low voice, after a moment or two, and it was Crowley’s voice, the soft burr and light brogue of Nanny gone for the moment.

“I thought you heard. Since you answered it for me.”

“What? Oh. No, not really. I was just going off what you said about ‘telling off’. Figured that was a fairly safe bet, really.”

“Ah.”

“So…what was it?”

Should he say? But Crowley could always just go and ask Warlock and if he needed to, bribe him with sweets or other things. Sometimes he had the suspicion that the demon was using ‘hellish influencing’ as a gateway to spoil the kid. Then again, the full expression was to ‘spoil someone rotten’, wasn’t it?

“Warlock seems to be under the impression that we are…special friends.” To just say ‘friends’ instead would bring him right back into the problem he’d thought about earlier.

He risked looking over at Crowley, some small part of his mind unhelpfully informing him of how good that style of hair looked on his friend, with or without the hat.

What he saw there wasn’t what he’d expected. He hadn’t explicitly had any mental picture, but he might’ve suspected a small smirk or a raised eyebrow or similar. It would certainly fit.

He was also quiet for a bit longer than Aziraphale was entirely comfortable with, his fears flaring up again. The fears were flamed a bit, too, by the way the bony knee stretched the fabric of the skirt where they sat bent and the desire to touch.

Good Lord, when and how had it got this bad?

“He got that from the way you told me off?”

“I have not ‘told you off’. I may have had a word or two with you, as I explained to Warlock, which is not the – “

“And from that, he jumped straight to ‘special friends’?” Crowley repeated, neatly interrupting Aziraphale.

“Apparently, yes.” Good thing Brother Francis was a bit ruddier in his complexion than Aziraphale himself. It made it easier to hide the redness in his cheeks.

“Well, then…” It might just be Aziraphale analysing but those two words suddenly felt more than a bit loaded.

“Crowley – “he began, trying to halt what the other might already be thinking. To mitigate potential harm. He didn’t realise that he’d said the wrong name out loud.

Now there was just the quirk of a smile that might’ve been a smirk or might’ve been something else.

“Special friends, eh?” the ginger said. Aziraphale tried again but was once more interrupted. “Suppose that’s not a bad description, all things considered.”

There was that oddity in the voice again. It really was starting to be something the blond dreaded even as he simultaneously cherished it, mainly because he didn’t know _why_ it was there.

“Well, yes, but that’s – you do realise what is actually – “

“Look who you’re asking. ‘Course I realise, angel. It’s not as though it’s – but Warlock won’t see it that way. He’s only eight.”

“I thought he was seven.”

“Birthday last month, remember.”

Not really, actually. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Something else struck him, then, which took his focus. “It really is very soon, isn’t it?”

“Three years to go? Yeah, it is.”

There was a pause that went on for a while. “Have we done enough do you think?”

Crowley sighed. “I don’t know, angel. I don’t know. Wish I did. I hope we have. But there’s not much else we can do, is there? Except, well, the permanent solution. Which I am not personally advertising for.”

“No. Not that it’ll be much of a permanent solution, either. Another eleven years, at most.” Which really was as much as they could hope for, too, if they succeeded, wasn’t it? No, surely not. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Another pause. “Well, I suppose then all we can do is hope what we’re doing will work. He certainly seems balanced.”

“And observant, too, it seems. Well, then, best get back to work.” And in that one sentence, Crowley once again became Nanny Ashtoreth, her voice softening and the burr and brogue returning. She rose from the seat with manicured hands resting on her thighs for support, all grace.

But Aziraphale halted her progress by, well, _almost_ touching her. He didn’t dare close that last bit of distance, what with his track record.

She looked down at him, a question on her half-hidden face.

“I hope that – I don’t think I got it across properly to, to Warlock that we’re – “

”Oh.” There was a pause at that, one that was just slightly too long for Aziraphale’s liking, as well as too…frozen in its stillness, unnaturally so. He tried to fill it, both to explain himself better and to combat that awful, sucking silence. It didn’t help, either, that the ‘oh’ had sounded as though some insight had just come to Crowley and it was not one that was pleasant.

“I may have – “Aziraphale began again, genuinely trying, but he was interrupted.

“Oh. Well. Don’t you worry about it. I’m sure that whatever you said that he will understand what was…meant.”

There was something odd, if not decidedly strange, to the altered voice now. Something that had nothing to do with the temporary alteration and was not anywhere near that hopeful, optimistic undertone that had left him so baffled and uncertain.

Instead, it came across as though something had frozen. Had crystallised into something that would break or at the very least crackle precariously if you put a foot wrong and it stifled the air between them and locked up Aziraphale’s throat.

Nevertheless, he tried to reach out, both through his hand and through his voice.

“Crowley!” he called to the already retreating figure, for the moment completely forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to be calling the other by that name while they were ‘undercover’. His hand, still outstretched, reached out further.

The tall, slim figure didn’t halt this time or turn around. Didn’t as much as turn her head to acknowledge that he’d been heard. She just continued to walk, quite gracefully even with the speed of the step, over the terrace and back into the house.

Aziraphale stared at her, his eyes wide, his heart pounding in his chest.

Just what had he done? How had he managed to end up right where he had tried so hard not to be? Where he had actually thought that he had managed to get himself out of and just wanted to make sure that he had. And now look at it all.

He felt like burying his face in his hands. At the very least.

What he did was rise up from where he sat slowly, go over to where he’d been working on a bed of roses. Or were they dahlias? He forgot.

It didn’t matter in any case because by the time he was done with them and had gotten himself at least somewhat back into a semblance of ‘together’, there was a group of very sad, very short stems and a lot of mangled flowers on the ground.

Feeling even worse, he quickly miracled them back into a good and, more importantly, alive state.

He considered then and there tending his resignation, regardless of whether Crowley would still be there as Nanny. But he realised it for the dramatic reaction that it would be as well as actually letting all the work he’d done so far with young Warlock go to waste and let the demons have an edge on it all, swaying him back towards evil…ehm, the Hell-side of things, anyway.

No, he couldn’t do that. If nothing else, he had a duty.

Actually, if he wanted to get technical about it, he had a duty to do more to stop Crowley entirely, not just thwart him from time to time when it was convenient. He had a duty to inform Heaven of the whereabouts of the Antichrist, to help them get an edge on the whole debacle. But he tried very hard not to think about that.

However he felt about it all, though, no matter what he had gotten himself into by ill thought out words and deeds, he could not quit on all of this. He would have to see it through, no matter what he might have to suffer through in the meantime.

It was all for the good of the world, after all. What was his pain in comparison to all of that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted a bit of Warlock in here, just being a bit...observant, too, I suppose. I like him. :)  
> Writing this as during canon is a surprising challenge.  
> I know it's short but hey, at least it's more, eh? I'll try my best to get the story finished, I promise. Thank you to the ones who's been reading


	4. A kind of confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't take Aziraphale's cock-up too well and for a while, Aziraphale is left with Warlock to help bring up and a demon who's grown distant.  
> Then one day, on their mutual day off, Crowley shows up in the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three months? Apologies to anyone who still cares and thank you for reading. I am trying to balance all the stories left unfinished.

Crowley was…well, it didn’t feel quite right to call him distant after that, and not only because purely physically, he was still as close as he’d ever been to Aziraphale for such extended periods of time. But there was a, call it a gap between them again, one that had existed before but had been closing slowly but surely over the years. In fact, it had escalated in diminishment between what Aziraphale had taken to calling his Drunken Declaration in his mind and up until, well, his other, more recent blunder, which seemed at least in part assisted by that look of hope and optimism.

Now, though…

It wasn’t quite fair to say that it was back to where it had been for so long. It wasn’t _worse_ than what it’d been before, either, something which Aziraphale was incredibly grateful for. But even with all of that in mind, the gap was there again like it hadn’t been for a very long time, and what was more and worse, it didn’t feel at all as bridgeable as it had done before.

To add to it all, Aziraphale felt guilty for making a mess of things like that and for not having the courage to go and make it right immediately. He should’ve followed the demon straight away, should’ve apologised and clarified what he meant. Should’ve been an actual friend and let Crowley know even if he couldn’t say it in so many words, for fear of who or what might hear.

That guilt and, yes, call it at least remorse was also part of why the angel felt that gap was as little bridgeable as it was. Which in turn only cemented for him how _bad_ of an idea it had been to bare his heart like that.

Crowley may or may not have heard his confession but even if he hadn’t, the worry, the uncertainty along with the more current guilt was eating away at Aziraphale – and he couldn’t make it right. To come clean would only make things worse than they were now. Nor could he gain solace from the closeness they had enjoyed as they were or at least as they’d been.

He was stuck in his own metaphorical limbo and there was no mountain he could climb to raise himself up higher, only the risk of falling into damnation.

The actual limbo was…well, perhaps it was easiest to say that Dante and the church might need to do some revisions to their ideas.

In that way, almost another year rolled past them and, coming up to Warlock’s ninth birthday, Crowley dropped in on Aziraphale, not while he was Brother Francis, but at the bookshop on a weekend Aziraphale had off.

When had he last turned up here? Aziraphale couldn’t quite recall but it had certainly been more than a year ago.

He’d heard the doorbell jangle once and, annoyed to be interrupted in his work – it was more true to say that he’d been fretting and trying to calm himself down than any actual work but that shouldn’t be held against him in the circumstances – he hadn’t even shouted that it was closed.

Instead, he’d gotten straight up, ready to march whoever it was straight back out, leaving them with the distinct impression that this was an unpleasant place that they should never return to.

He’d only come as far as the front half of the shop when he saw who it was, and he stopped in his tracks, frozen on the spot.

Why was he here? Had he found out something? Was there word from below? But he’d call for something like that, surely? There was no need to turn up in person.

Unless…

“C-Crowley,” he managed to get out and thought he hid the slight stammer as well. “What are you doing here?”

He wasn’t in his nanny outfit, either, just the one that was, so he claimed, currently on trend. Did he have the day off, too? Aziraphale no longer had a clear idea of when those days occurred or overlapped with his own, and not for lack of trying to find out.

The demon stood looking at him in silence for a long moment, what could fit of his fingers buried into the pockets of his trousers, his eyes frustratingly obscured, as always, by dark glasses. His own, though, not Ashtoreth’s.

“Not even gonna say hello to me now?” he said at last and his voice was strange, in a way that stabbed a shard through Aziraphale’s heart. “Just straight onto the demand to know why I showed up to darken your door, eh?”

“Darken my – what on earth do you mean? When have I ever uttered a phrase like that?”

The bewilderment at the turn of phrase tempered the guilt of having caused this just a little because he had no idea what was going on.

“Don’t need to say it in words, do you?” Crowley said and perhaps it would’ve been easier if his words had been harsh or even cold, dismissive. Instead, they sounded as though they hurt. “Said it in your stance, the way you were about to throw me out – “

“My dear, I didn’t know that it was you at the door when – “Aziraphale tried to explain but Crowley ploughed right on, seeming not to hear him.

“And the fact that you haven’t invited me back here at all,” the demon continued, which made even less sense. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Wait, _what_?

“I have been –? No, I most certainly have not!” If anything, it’d been Crowley who’d avoided Aziraphale!

He was about to say that out loud when he stopped. That wasn’t entirely true, was it? Not only that, saying it out loud would probably make it worse for him somehow. It seemed to be the trend.

“You have. Over and over again. I’ve seen you.”

There was just a bit of…

“Crowley, are you drunk?”

The demon scoffed, in a rather conspicuous manner that wasn’t convincing. “What would I be drunk for? To cope? Is that what you think?”

There was even a hiss to the voice. It was subtle and probably nobody else would’ve noticed but…

“No, not at all. Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale said, concern taking the driving seat, though everyone else was still piled into the car. His body moved forward on its own, grabbing hold of the slightly swaying body. “But I don’t understand why you…what have I done wrong?”

Please don’t say that he’s been drinking because he’s finally put two and two together about…about everything, really. Please tell me there’s a way I haven’t undone all that we have.

It was a wish, a deep, fervent one, but it wasn’t a prayer, mainly because well, angels didn’t pray, did they? It’d be like praying to the CEO, almost literally. But there was also the fact that if he could pray, it might catch the attention of someone who didn’t need to hear it. The very air had ears, sometimes.

Something else seemed to be the matter, though, with Crowley, even if Aziraphale couldn’t tell what that something was. Which was why he’d asked a question he’d technically already gotten an answer to.

“I just said, didn’t I?” Crowley said, almost snapping. “You’ve been avoiding me since, since that – that time when you said that Warlock thought we were special friends.”

The ginger tried to pull free of Aziraphale’s grip at that, but he couldn’t quite manage it, his legs apparently more unsteady than he anticipated.

Aziraphale’s heart dropped further than it already was. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t think of anything that didn’t run the risk of making things even worse.

In that vein, he very much ought to let go of the demon, too. But he couldn’t just leave him there when he couldn’t stand securely on his own right then.

_You could sit him down, you know. Solve both problems then._

When he was angry with him, the chance that he’d want to be led further into the shop wasn’t all that great, though, was it?

Oh, what on earth should he do?

Then Crowley continued speaking. “Asked him about it,” he said, staring at the angel as though daring him to defy what he’d said.

Aziraphale couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. Even so, he had to say something, had to stop –

The doorbell jingled again as a couple came in, that special kind of light in their eyes that said they expected to get a bargain they could sell for a small fortune. Which, to be honest, they actually could. If they knew where to look, they might even miss the ones they could sell for a large fortune to the right sort of dealers.

They more or less slammed the door open, which sent it into the back of Crowley, who hadn’t gotten very far away from the door. Unsteady as he already was, he staggered just a little, towards the angel.

Aziraphale glared at them. He hadn’t been in the mood for customers before, even less so than he normal was – how dragons felt about their hoard more or less summarised his feelings towards his books – hence why he’d stomped towards the front to stop what had been Crowley. But now, he was about ready to snap their heads off.

“Out,” he said, and it was a snap that could tear if it wasn’t very carefully leashed.

“What?” the man said, confused but also immediately indignant.

“I said, _out._ Now. I’m not selling anything to you…you _humans_ so get out of my shop this instant.” He didn’t move because he still felt he needed to keep a grip on the demon to keep him steady but though his voice didn’t rise, the anger and threat in it was unequivocal and almost thrumming.

However, there is always someone who won’t take even the most obvious of hints. The man drew his frame, which leaned more horizontal than vertical, up as best he could and folded his arms.

“You’re a shop, man, you’re supposed to sell things. We’re not going anywhere until we find something good.”

“You’re definitely not supposed to have it off with random customers in the shop in the middle of the day,” the woman added with a small but very pointed sniff, her gaze falling meaningfully on Crowley, travelling up his form like a very disdainful elevator.

Something happened then that Aziraphale wouldn’t have believed if he’d been told about it.

Crowley seemed to sober up in an instant, judging by his air. He straightened up in one go, finding his footing as he turned around to outright glower at the intruders. No, not just glower; his lips were pulled back in a resemblance of a snarl and though the angel wasn’t in the best angle to see, he thought he spotted canines just a tad too long to be properly called that.

“I think that’s none of your fucking business,” Crowley _hissed_ as he advanced slowly on the couple. They hadn’t been far away to begin with, but they’d instinctively started to back up, something primal telling them to run from the image of the predator they afterwards convinced themselves had been their imagination. “Unless you want to join _in_ , of course. I could really do with a _snack.”_

His teeth snapped around the last ‘k’ as though it was a morsel trying to escape. They stared at him, eyes seemingly about to pop, then turned and ran as fast as they could, the door slamming shut behind them.

The moment they were gone, the demon’s hand shot out to steady himself against the nearest surface, his knees buckling a little.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. He wanted to move forward again, to help in whatever capacity he could. But now with the threat gone and the demon sober, even if he wasn’t well, Aziraphale didn’t quite dare.

“Didn’t expect that…They thought – thought we were ‘special’, too,” Crowley said and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was meant to have heard. “They don’t even know us and…”

His knees buckled in earnest then, but the blond managed to catch him.

“Don’t need ‘special’,” Crowley murmured, anger gone, replaced with tiredness…and something else. “Don’t want arguments, either, or distance between us. Just want…want to go back to how things were.”

Aziraphale didn’t feel like he entirely understood…any of it, really – except the sentiment. He understood that well. “So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I could wrap it up here but I'm not quite going to, yet. There was something I wanted to get to with this and I will, I promise.


	5. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley collapses and Aziraphale tries to handle the situation. They start to talk and try to mend the situation they've got themselves into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wait of only a month and 4k? What is the world coming to? I can't promise I'm able to keep this going but yay for now. Thank you to all you kind people reading and leaving feedback! <3

“So do I.”

It was said with earnestness, conviction, hope and just the hint of a smidgeon of pleading, which he wasn’t certain afterwards had been there outside his mind. He would’ve said more, too, would’ve asked Crowley further questions about what exactly he meant with not just the last comment but all of it.

Before he could, though, the lanky body slumped against him, apparently asleep. It couldn’t be out of exhaustion, though, as that, just as with sleep, wasn’t something they as supernatural beings needed. Though of course, Crowley did sleep, so maybe…

Aziraphale’s jumble of thoughts were interrupted by a phone ringing. It wasn’t his own old landline but instead Crowley’s mobile, which was…nestled in his inside jacket pocket, by the sound of it.

Which meant he would have to touch, well, more than he already was, if he was to retrieve it and answer it for him.

But what if – no, it wouldn’t be Hell. From what he’d understood from Crowley’s mentions of it, Hell had never gotten the hang of _calling_ on a phone.

Fumbling for it without jostling his friend and trying hard not to think about what he was doing, Aziraphale managed to fish the phone out of the pocket without dropping it.

He didn’t immediately press the answer button and it wasn’t because he didn’t know which button it was. It wasn’t exactly difficult to work out when there was a red and a green one.

No, it was because of who exactly was calling.

The screen read ‘Dowlings’.

But it was Crowley’s day off. He should be allowed to have his day off, what with everything that he did for the diplomat family. Of course, emergencies happened but with parents like that, well…

More than that issue, though, was the fact that Aziraphale couldn’t really be seen to answer what the Dowlings thought was Nanny Ashtoreth’s phone. Definitely not as Brother Francis nor even really as Mr. Fell.

If assumptions would be made about them as gardener and nanny – he thought that he’d caught Mrs. Dowling glancing at him askance in the last year more than once, albeit with a small smile on her lips that he couldn’t decipher – then there would be assumptions made when a complete stranger, as far as they knew, was the one to answer their nanny’s phone.

Of course, this wasn’t the 1900s but even so…

Then again, perhaps it was time to move on from being Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. Ten-year olds didn’t…well, some did still have nannies, he supposed, but it wasn’t the norm even for families of their social and financial standing.

In his indecision, the phone didn’t stop ringing at any point. The longer he waited, the more…no, not concerned but perhaps suspicious they would be.

Well, then, he didn’t have to lie, did he? He could tell the truth easily.

He pressed the little circle on the screen and, still holding onto Crowley and very firmly _not thinking about that fact,_ held it up to his ear.

“Hello? Who is this?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well, careful to pitch his voice so it didn’t sound at all like Brother Francis and might not even really sound like himself, to be on the safe side.

A pause for answer. “Oh, yes. Hello. Who I am? My name is Fell. Why I’m – I should’ve thought that was pretty self-explanatory. You don’t think so? Well, sir, the lady the phone belongs to – in your employ, you say? A nanny, how positively _lovely_ – came into my bookshop, I think for a book on baseball stamps for a young boy, and then she felt suddenly faint, the poor dear. I’m afraid she’s not in much of a state to do anything right now.”

He looked down at Crowley but only briefly, needing to focus on his task and not be derailed. However, he did shift his grip so the demon could lean more comfortably against him and he did, almost rolling into it in an unresponsive state that Aziraphale most emphatically did not like.

“Yes, of course I’ve called for – yes, I do appreciate that you seem to have a bit of an emergency yourself but I am certain that compared to a collapse that very much looks like exhaustion – no, I am not a medical professional but it doesn’t take much except a pair of functioning eyes to see the poor thing is so – sir, you are a grown man. I would have thought you could handle your own offspring on your own for an afternoon even when they are – no, I will not ‘wake her up and tell her to get on with it’. That is not how it works, and I have to say I’m incredibly saddened to hear that you hold that attitude.”

He paused and took the phone from his ear, counted for a moment then held the phone back up to speak into it.

“I do apologise, sir, but I was entirely correct. That’s the ambulance arriving, with a siren on. I’m afraid I must leave you to make sure the poor dear gets safely into the vehicle. What you’re supposed to do now? I really don’t know, sir, but I wish you the best of luck. Goodbye.”

With that, he hung up, feeling just a tinge of guilt at the somewhat larger twang of satisfaction that whole conversation had given him. Honestly, Thaddeus Dowling was…not cut out for the father role, that was probably the best way to put it. One afternoon together with his son and he couldn’t cope with what Warlock came up with.

To be fair, Warlock had gotten more inventive over the years but even so, it wasn’t that difficult. Just look at how well his nanny –

His nanny.

His Nanny Ashtoreth who was still slumped against Aziraphale’s side, as limp as before. On the bright side, that also meant that he wasn’t limper than he had been and honestly, Aziraphale would take what he could get.

There was no ambulance, of course, nor was any coming. This wasn’t…well, this didn’t seem like anything that a human doctor could solve and even if it were, there was nothing that would make him leave Crowley’s side right then. Not when he needed him.

_And what about if any of the other angels should happen to drop by to check on how it’s going? How are you going to explain the smell in here, then?_

He would simply say nothing unless it was brought up. It wasn’t as though this was Crowley’s first time staying in the bookshop for any length of time, the smell was…well, it was certainly detectable but also, there was enough traces of it all over, old and new, that it could written off as nothing to worry about. Might even just pin the blame on the books. Job done.

_And if they spot Crowley? It isn’t as though you can claim he’s just an assistant or similar. Or a lumpy blanket. They might not notice the smell of demon, but they most certainly won’t miss or overlook a demon itself in the shop._

And what would you then have me do? he asked the inner voice, irritated. He’s in no state to walk out of here on his own and even if he were or I could get him back to his flat, I am not leaving him on his own in this state. Why he’s suddenly like this after, well, a very minor display and admittedly an emotional outburst before that, that I do not care for in the slightest, and he shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.

_Even if it means that he’ll be sleeping in the shop again? The thing you’ve tried to avoid, for both of your sakes._

He should’ve hesitated in answering. It had a point, after all.

His answer came immediately.

Yes, even if it meant that. Even if it meant him sleeping in the shop while Gabriel and the rest of his cadre of archangels showed up. Aziraphale would find a way to hide him and keep him, keep both of them safe. He had no idea _how_ , but he would.

Gently, carefully, making sure that his grip on the lanky body was secure enough that he wouldn’t slip from his grasp as they moved, he dragged Crowley through the shop all the way to the sofa.

Once he’d got him settled, however, which included a blanket, he hesitated.

The demon was still evidently unconscious, with no obvious signs of waking up or the reason why this had happened. It didn’t make much if any sense.

“Crowley?” he called again from his position a few feet away from the piece of furniture.

He didn’t dare stand any closer to him for longer than absolutely necessary and even then, when he’d put a blanket over him, he’d been nervous about it – and had had to stop himself in different ways. So, no, he wasn’t going to keep close, even though it might be what Crowley needed to be properly assessed.

There was no response, so he called one more time, louder and more insistently.

The third time was very insistent and the fourth outright pleading.

What else could be wrong or rather, what could be the actual reason? There had to be something else wrong, if it couldn’t be exhaustion and it really couldn’t, because otherwise, it didn’t make any sense. They were supernatural beings, it wasn’t as though they got sick, was it?

After what felt like absolute ages, not at all helped by the way in which his heart was beating a nervous, worried staccato rhythm in his chest and the need to check for whether someone was entering his closed bookshop, he finally thought he saw some movement. More than that, he thought he saw the eyebrows twitch and draw together in a gesture that went beyond normal range for what the ginger did when he was asleep.

Crowley made an unintelligible noise something along the lines of ‘nghftuhffnk’. His arms reached out instinctively, it seemed, though what exactly he was reaching for, with fingers that grasped, wasn’t clear.

Aziraphale didn’t move from his spot, very much afraid to. But he watched with a sense of relief when the demon managed to get himself into a slightly elevated position on his elbows, still otherwise lying down.

“Aziraphale?” he slurred; the name barely comprehensible as he spoke.

However, the angel still remembered the last time, ten years prior, that Crowley had woken from unconsciousness on that sofa and how that time, the first thing, proper thing, out of the demon’s mouth had been his name, just as it had this time. He believed the surge in his heart was entirely the same as well, which only sent it a little higher.

It appeared that his hesitation went on for too long for Crowley. Though presumably he was able to see fine through the sunglasses, his head moved as if he was trying to locate something. That something being Aziraphale who hadn’t answered.

“Aziraphale,” he repeated.

“Oh. Yes. Here. I’m right here.”

Was it just him or had Crowley’s voice an odd quality to it? Oh, he didn’t know anymore. This whole day had been odd and not in a pleasant way, either, if odd could ever be said to be pleasant.

The ginger’s head turned in the direction of his voice and the slowness with which it did worried Aziraphale further.

“What happened?” he asked, and his voice still sounded as though he’d had to drag it up from some depth and do something complicated to it make it come out.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale said, which was true enough. “You came in, I think you were drunk. You said some…some rather confusing things, I have to say. Then we were interrupted by some customers and you…scared them away. With…with some demonic aura or something, not too sure, as I couldn’t see. But then you felt ill and – “

“I remember that. Felt…dunno, really. Tired, I suppose, but not really. Can’t explain it.”

He didn’t say anything about what he’d said when he’d arrived and if he wasn’t, then Aziraphale wasn’t going to press the issue. Once the boat had settled, if it was the right way up, there was no need to risk rocking the boat.

Well, there might be but even if there was, he wasn’t going to do it.

He very much wanted to do just what Crowley had expressed a wish for before he’d fallen unconscious; go back to where they’d been. If he could achieve that by not mentioning anything, then he’d do it.

Of course, with the fact that this was a problem with roots far further back than today, then the chance that just not talking about it right now would mean they were sorted wasn’t great.

But then again, Crowley did say that he wanted to, so just maybe, _he_ thought that this meant that it had been settled.

That rather depends on whether he remembers saying that part, doesn’t it? Because if he doesn’t, and it seems like he doesn’t when he isn’t referring to the argument at all either, then things might be back to how they were but that means how they’ve been in the last year.

But it isn’t certain that that’s why he isn’t mentioning it.

_No, it isn’t. Is_ any _of this certain?_

No. Unfortunately not, much as he wanted it to be.

Or…well, he could perhaps at least ask without tipping anything.

“How much do you remember?” he asked, carefully, studying the other’s face while still keeping an eye and ear open for any hint of divine presences.

If he could get that out of him, he might have a baseline to work from, which would be better than this swampy, quicksand-like feeling of great uncertainty. There was obvious a taint from what he’d just explained himself, but he didn’t think Crowley would just parrot that back to him.

“I…” Crowley began but then he stopped.

“Why are you asking?” he said then his eyebrows, just visible over his sunglasses, drew together hard. “Why are you standing over there, anyway?”

Now he sounded…like he had when he’d come in. Not entirely but enough so that Aziraphale’s heart contracted and twisted simultaneously.

“You’re avoiding me again, aren’t you?” Crowley accused.

“No,” Aziraphale said and this time, he managed to say it quickly and earnestly. Never mind the fact that the next thing out of his mouth would be a…slight moderation of the truth, not an outright lie. “I’m standing over here so I can better assess you while also keeping a close eye on the door.”

“Don’t think anyone – hey, wasn’t there a couple in here who tried to steal some of your books?”

“Buy, but yes. Well remembered.”

The frown deepened. “Don’t patronise – “

“It’s not for the risk of other humans barging in,” the angel interrupted, snapping a little, just a tiny bit strung out. “It’s to make sure we don’t suddenly get…other visitors.”

“The hell do – oh. Divine intervention sort of thing?”

At least he cottoned onto that rather quickly.

“Yes.”

“Have…do they do that a lot? After the…after we’ve started…”

Aziraphale’s expression softened a little even as it was still anxious. He turned his face towards the door. “More often than they used to, at least. But it only takes the once to…“ He trailed off, not quite able to say it.

“Sorry. Didn’t think about that. I’ll just – “

There was a soft noise, presumably the woollen blanket hitting the back of the sofa.

“Stay there.” The angel turned his head back to, sure enough, see Crowley try to get up, his legs tangling with part of the blanket as he swung them out. “You’re not going anywhere in that state, so _stay there._ ”

Never mind the fact that whatever it was or had been, the demon could just remove it wholesale, no harm, no foul, as he might say in his colourful expressions.

For a moment it looked as if Crowley was in fact going to argue that very point, possibly add something about how if he really was all that worried about being caught out, then there should be more incentive for him to want his bookshop demon-free.

Then, after staring in the direction of the angel, he clamped his mouth shut, hard enough to be audible and sat, or rather slumped, back onto the sofa.

Was that in some sort of conscious effort to try and mend bridges? To actually go back to how they were? More likely, it was just coincidence and in reality, Crowley was still just feeling the effects of his collapse. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for that and wished dearly that he could go over there and help without the risk it presented.

How he wished he really _could_ rewind the clock. Or be certain that Crowley didn’t remember anything, if he’d even heard anything, so that Aziraphale could safely make himself forget the entire thing.

“Got to get back eventually, though,” the demon mumbled after some minutes had passed by in a silence that was mainly silent. “Only got the day off, after all.”

He huffed in a way that was more of a snort. “Surprised they haven’t called me. Either of us, really. A whole day where they have to look after him.”

“Ehm…yes, about that,” Aziraphale began, making a complicated face at that. “They…they did.”

“What? When?”

“Just when you had…fallen unconscious. I had to be quite insistent with Mr. Dowling – “

“Bloody idiot’s denser than a diamond,” Crowley grumbled.

“Now, Crowley, that’s being unfair.” He didn’t need to mention just _what_ Mr. Dowling had said or how he’d thought something very much along the same lines when on the phone with him. How had he never realised before, anyway?

“Yeah, ‘course it is. I’m a demon, I’m not supposed to be fair or just. That’s what you lot is supposed to be for, innit?”

Aziraphale could only muster an agreeing smile that was closer to a grimace than anything, then felt rather guilty that he hadn’t been able to summon a more definite and sincere agreement.

He tried again.

“Yes, it is,” he said, trying for a smile again and thinking that he succeeded, at least to a stronger degree. “But even so, you can’t just…well. I’m sure he’s trying his best to – “

“And he’s doing a shit job of ‘his best’, angel, you know it.” Crowley paused, seemingly to clear his head a little as he tipped it back for a long moment. “It’s a good thing it hasn’t been up to him to actually raise his child.”

“Yes, well, about that…” Aziraphale began, seeing his opening but feeling at least mildly wretched at even suggesting it.

The ginger sat himself up again, a little too fast, perhaps, as he reached out to grasp at the back of the sofa – and why hadn’t he just done away with feeling bad entirely? “What?”

“You do know that we can’t actually keep on being his…at least being gardener and nanny for him, don’t you?”

“Don’t see why not. Not as though we’re going to keep the job once Armageddon starts.”

“The point of the whole enterprise is for it _not_ to start,” Aziraphale reminded him in a low but nevertheless somewhat urgent voice, his eyes darting back towards the entrance again.

It was probably paranoid but with the day they’d had so far, it would just figure that Gabriel would stride through the doors any minute, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah. Course,” Crowley said. “Still don’t see why we can’t stay on, especially then.”

Aziraphale blinked, not believing what he was hearing. Did – why on earth would Crowley want to stay on as nanny for one human child? Well, ‘human’ as a relative term, anyway.

Not that Warlock was a bad child. Not at all, but even so…no, in a way, he could see the logic. If their plan succeeded and they did prevent the end of the world, Warlock would have more time to grow up and, well, leaving him to his parents to be exclusively cared for…no. No, that idea wasn’t palatable in the slightest.

However, there was one major factor that he had to mention.

“Do you want to be there when they realise that they’ve been foiled?” he asked.

“Who says that they will?”

“Well, the part where _Armageddon doesn’t start because there’s no functioning Antichrist_ might clue them in, don’t you think?”

“Do you…” Crowley paused then hauled himself fully upright, turning to face Aziraphale in one go. His face looked…not exactly drawn but at least wary and the hurt from earlier was still present. Or perhaps had returned. “Is it because of me you want to stop being – “

“ _No.”_ The word came out firm, bordering on hard as he interrupted. Neither was intentional but he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. “We aren’t having that discussion again. I do not want to get rid of you nor…any of the other things you mentioned.”

He’d been about to add ‘it is simply a ridiculous notion’ but had managed to clamp down on it just before the words made it past his lips. Thankfully.

Crowley looked in his direction for a long, long moment.

“Why, then? Why do you want us to stop being there for him?”

He sounded hurt again but it didn’t sound quite the same as the other times. Aziraphale could guess at the reason for that much easier, too and he couldn’t help but empathise.

The angel’s face softened further, and he moved forward a few steps, still keeping some distance but closing it, nevertheless, keeping eye contact while he did so.

“I don’t. Believe me, I don’t. But I don’t think that it’s right for us to…well, be that in the foreground anymore. That is all. I am not suggesting leaving him alone all but move a bit more…into the background of his life.”

The demon, who’d looked at him with some relatively indecipherable expression, not accounting for the sunglasses, ever since he’d asked whether he was to blame for Aziraphale’s suggestion, pursed his lips and continued to look at the other in silence that grew gradually more awkward, at least for Aziraphale, who tried not to fidget under his gaze.

Finally, Crowley said, “You want there to be no more influences. To let him grow on his own.”

There was no inflection to it, at least none that Aziraphale could easily decipher.

“Yes. Something to that effect.” No, that wasn’t quite right. “I’d like to see what he could become, what direction he will go without us to steer and counter-steer all the time.”

“To take the training wheels off and see if he can ride the bike?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help his own smile at that, the memory of Warlock’s tricycle and the trouble he’d gotten into quite a fond one. “It was quite the lovely thing you bought him.”

And it had been _bought,_ too, not miracled into existence.

“Tyke never could be persuaded to ride it inside the house,” Crowley said. “I blame your good influence.” It was said with a grumble but there was a fondness to it that undermined it.

More than that, though, Aziraphale could feel that the tension in the room, between them, had loosened its grip. It wasn’t gone but at this point he’d take whatever he could get.

“We’ve done all we could, haven’t we?” he asked, gently, moving a little closer again, forgetting that this meant seeing the front door from where he now stood was a great deal more difficult.

Crowley looked at him for another moment, in silence. Then the hint of a smile broke out on his face but Aziraphale took comfort in what he deemed its sincerity.

“I suppose we have,” the ginger said. “Okay. Let’s do that, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got somewhere, yay! Not quite solved yet, I know, and I possibly could've drawn it all out much longer but...it didn't feel right and I didn't want to. Whether it was any good, I'll leave up to you, but I did enjoy writing Aziraphale's phone conversation quite a lot.  
> Hope to not make you wait too long.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, I like writing Aziraphale but he's sometimes really really tricky to balance, to me, at least. Therefore, I hope I haven't messed up too bad on this. I am trying.  
> Feedback is loved and treasured if the criticism you give is constructive.


End file.
